


A stroke of genius

by TooManyChoices



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Baskerville Research Facility, Don't touch contaminated slides, Experimentation, First Time, Hand Jobs, M/M, Masturbation, PWP, Sharing a Bed, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-21
Updated: 2016-09-21
Packaged: 2018-08-16 12:06:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,595
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8101795
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TooManyChoices/pseuds/TooManyChoices
Summary: An alternate Baskerville case around the same point (S2E2 - S2E3).No glowing bunnies or savage beasties in this one. Just Sherlock touching things he shouldn't, and then suffering from the urge to touch things he should.Where's his trusty doctor when he needs him?





	

“So Doctor Cottesloe, how long has Baskerville been experimen —”

“Mr Holmes, put that down!”

Striding across the room, the Doctor plucked the slide from Sherlock’s fingers, placing it back in the tray before taking it and putting in in a nearby fridge.

“I’d have thought you’d understand the risks of touching potentially contaminated equipment, Mr Holmes.” He turned around to face them both, “Now, if there’s no other specific questions, I think it’s time you left.”

Sherlock looked at him for several seconds, narrowed eyes and appraising before nodding toward the door, “Come on John, finished here.”

Sherlock was halfway down the corridor, John following in Sherlock’s wake as usual when Doctor Cottesloe called to him, “Oh, and Mr Holmes?”

He turned back to see the scientist removing the tray of slides from the fridge again, “If you feel anything… odd, please contact us immediately.”

Altogether more uneasy, he held the door of the lift as John picked up his pace to catch up.

*

  
The drive back to the hotel was unusually quiet. For all Sherlock claimed he could be ‘quiet for days’ the reality was that as long as John filled the silence with interesting facts, Sherlock would continue to respond; challenging and expanding on any topic. But today, Sherlock wasn’t responding to any of the topics John tried to raise, instead he seemed abnormally focussed on the road, his forehead furrowed.

Sherlock had begun fidgeting in his seat around five minutes ago and it had now gotten so bad that the steering was beginning to waver alarmingly.

“You ok?”

He got nothing but a rigid nod of the head in reply and the silence continued until Sherlock huffed a frustrated breath and pulled off to the side of the road.

“Sherlock?”

“Stay here.”

“What are you —?”

“Stay… here.” Sherlock shoved at the door, virtually leaping from the jeep and striding away into the scrubby brush at the verge. John hurried to unclip his safety belt and climb out, intending to follow.

“Sherlock!” He called to where Sherlock was standing some distance away, the tail of his Belstaff moving in the wind as Sherlock faced away.

“Stay there, just… damn it,” he called back before seeming to tremble for a moment and the sound of a zipper carried over the background noise of wind across the barren landscape.

John drew to a halt, realising that Sherlock had likely just got caught short and needed to relieve himself until he saw Sherlock’s’s shoulder hunch and begin to move in short abortive jerks with a very distinctive movement. _Clearly not urinating_ , he thought, unable to drag his eyes away.

It didn’t take long, and John watched enthralled, as Sherlock steadied his stance, the roll in his shoulder picking up speed before he suddenly curled forward and then shuddered violently, wobbling on his wide placed feet. Finally, there was a movement, presumably as he refastened his trousers, squared his shoulders and walked back to the car, pushing past John on the way, flushed and avoiding his eyes.

“Sherlock?” John began quietly.

“Don’t,”Sherlock responded quickly then added more quietly, “just… don’t.”

The rest of the drive was, if it were possible, even more silent.

There were many things the two of them didn’t talk about: John’s unquestioning loyalty to Sherlock, Sherlock’s inexplicable need for praise from John, the way Sherlock’s violin playing soothed John’s nightmares, the way Sherlock’s eyes would soften when John placed a cup of tea next to the detective while he was working on a file, the way that John’s favourite biscuits seemed to appear on the side counter after a particularly bad day at the clinic, and the deep, rough way Sherlock murmured thank you when John draped a rug over him while he was brooding on the sofa.

At the top, the very pinnacle of the list was the unspoken rule that they discuss neither John’s sex life, nor Sherlock’s lack of one. Even though Sherlock was quite blatantly doing everything in his power to scare off any potential partner, they must not, ever, discuss it. Even if Sherlock wandered the flat in a sheet, all lithe grace and elegant pale lines and John’s eyes watched the way he moved and bent, it wasn’t to be mentioned. Even if John leaned over the detective while he was deep in his mind palace and ran a fond hand through dark curls and Sherlock unconsciously arched into the touch like a cat, they must never, under any circumstances, talk about it.

So they spent the reminder of the trip studiously _not_ mentioning what Sherlock had certainly _not_ done on the moors and what John had absolutely _not_ seen Sherlock not doing. Instead, Sherlock resumed his diligent concentration on the road until they arrived at the tiny hotel they were staying at.

“I’m starving,” John ventured as they parked the car, “dinner?”

“Of course,” Sherlock replied absently, “yes, I’ll just… I need to… umm. Just going pop up to the room for a bit. You go through and I’ll meet you there, alright?”

John glanced over to find Sherlock was again idly running his hands up and down his thighs, thumbs drifting suspiciously close to his crotch and was unsurprised at the familiar twinge of lust that the movement generated in his own jeans.

“Of course, you just… relax and I’ll order for us.”

If he hadn’t been watching for it, he’d have missed the firm hand Sherlock ran over his fly and the quiet moan that he detective couldn’t quite suppress as he stepped from the car, turning quickly away to hide what he was doing.

 _We don’t talk about this_ , John thought, _we don’t… talk… about… this_. Nevertheless, this new behaviour fascinated him. The only possible cause that made any sort of sense was some sort of delayed reaction to their visit to Baskerville. Perhaps the excitement of the case had left him with some unresolved arousal. It was, however, unprecedented for Sherlock to do anything so… overt as touching himself in public, much less actually masturbate on the side of a deserted road seemingly unconcerned by John’s presence. For all that Sherlock had peculiar ideas about personal space and appropriate standards of dress when visiting royal palaces, this just wasn’t something he did… ever.

Whatever the case, he’d respect Sherlock’s privacy, give him space and do as he promised. He’d go inside, get them a table by the fire and he’d order them dinner.

*

Almost two hours later, Sherlock hadn’t reappeared and John had polished off his risotto and picked all the tomatoes from Sherlock’s now cold pasta dish. He’d finished both his first Scotch and his second, as well as Sherlock’s and he was running out of excuses to hold the table.

With another glance at his watch, he finally sighed in resignation and paid the bill, heading down the hallway to knock on the door of their shared room.

“Go away.”

“Sherlock, it’s me.”

“Of course it’s you. Go away.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Sherlock. This is our room with, obviously, my bed in it. Where I intend to sleep. Let me in.”

There was a long quiet pause during which John rapidly considered other options for where he might be able to grab a few hours of rest if Sherlock continued to refuse entry. Finally, there was the snick of a lock and Sherlock opened the door only enough to allow them to talk quietly through the gap.

“If I let you in, you need to give me your word to treat the situation in a professional manner.”

“Sherlock, of course I —”

“Professional, as in Doctor, you understand, just…” Sherlock was rambling, which usually meant either he was solving a case, or that he was rattled. And going by the expression on his face, he was going with the latter, “… just, I’m expecting some bedside manner. I know they teach you that stuff at college, and —”

“Alright Sherlock,” John murmured seriously, “let me in.”

It was a near thing; the professionalism. When John eased through the door, he was confronted with the almost unimaginable. Sherlock’s bed was strewn with tissues, and the man himself was naked from the waist down, a situation that would probably have been more arousing had the top half of his flatmate not still been swathed in a crisp white shirt and his suit coat.

“At some point…” John stepped quietly into the room and tried to adopt a suitably serious pose, “I’m going to mention your state of dress. When I do that, I want to assure you, it will be difficult to appear appropriately professional.”

“Shut up.”

“I’m also likely to comment on the number of semen-stained tissues evident on your bed. That’s likely to be construed as tactless. I assure you, however, that I’m going to ask only with the greatest concern as your Doctor.”

Sherlock, meanwhile, had resumed pacing the small room, his hands clenching reflexively and his face tight.

John leaned forward, watching, “But because you are clearly distressed, I’m going to put these questions to one side for the moment. Sherlock…” he waited until the detective paused and turned to look at him, “I want to help, what’s going on?”

Something in the tone obviously helped because Sherlock’s distant look cleared and he instead focussed on him, heaving a sigh before glancing at the bed and blushing, “Something’s wrong. I…” another twitch of his hand, “this will sound ridiculous but I can’t seem to stop touching myself.”

John couldn’t help the glance downward, to where Sherlock’s genitals lay, not quite hidden behind the hanging front of his shirt. Sherlock coughed loudly and he flicked his eyes upward again.

“You’re not erect,”John stated the fact as emotionlessly as he could manage, given Sherlock was standing half naked in front of him, and they were discussing things they _did NOT discuss_.

“No, and that doesn’t seem to matter. I don’t even _want_ to, and yet,” his hand clenched again, “I can’t seem to stop, and once I start… well, things progress to their inevitable conclusion.”

There was a thoughtful moment while John considered options until he finally suggested, “Baskerville?”

“That was my conclusion too; must have been on that damned slide. I’ve…I’ve contacted Mycroft.”

“You’ve WHAT? Mycroft, seriously?”

“Look John, I can’t keep on like this,” he gestured at his crotch, “I can’t work, I can’t think, I can’t even go out in public. I need to know what they’ve done to me.”

“But… Mycroft?”

“I know, but at least he already knew we were there. He’s promised an answer by the morning. Now…”Sherlock had started the reflexive rubbing of his thigh again, “if you’d like to excuse me, I’d appreciate it if you could just get into bed and go to sleep because I’m apparently going to be spending the evening masturbating in the bathroom.”

*

  
The noise that woke John was more a whimper of pain than a moan of pleasure. He opened his eyes and rolled to his side, looking to the twin bed beside his own. In the dim light, he could see the indistinct mound of covers indicating that Sherlock had tried to go to bed at some stage, although the tossing and turning clearly showed he wasn’t asleep.

“Sherlock?”

“Go back to sleep,” Sherlock’s voice was tense.

“You’re in pain, so that’s obviously not going to happen. What’s wrong?”

“I can’t stop,”Sherlock sounded exhausted, defeated.

“Still?”

“Still. It doesn’t seem to matter that it feels like I’ve rubbed the top layer of skin off, I still have this… urge,” there was a hiss of pain and Sherlock rolled to his side, curling in on himself in an instinctual effort to protect himself.

“Lube?”

“Ran out an hour ago, and spit isn’t doing the job, trust me.”

At the image of Sherlock, his hand slick and moving, John’s heart pounded, and his cock was already thickening in anticipation at the thought of what he was about to suggest. _We don’t talk about this_ , except, now they do apparently. If Sherlock reacted badly, he could pass it off as just another one of his idiot ideas, only fit for _normal_ people.

“Does it have to be you?” John whispered.

“Does what have to be me?” Sherlock asked from the darkness of his bed.

“In your hand… to touch, does it have to be… you?”

There was a stuttered gasp from the darkness of the bed and then a slow reply, “I don’t… I don’t know.”

“I could, stand in, if you want to try it.”

“John. It’s a generous offer, but…”

“Forget it, sorry. I know… the work. This would be… crossing a line.”

“No, it’s not that. But…”

The silence sat, pensive and loaded, John breathing a little too loud at the prospect of Sherlock touching him, getting some attention for his increasingly demanding erection and Sherlock still fidgeting in the other bed.

“Look. I’m just gonna come over there, just for a bit and we’ll… umm… we’ll talk about it a bit more if you want to. OK?”

Sherlock’s voice was almost inaudible, “Alright.”

So John lifted the edge of his blankets and closed the tiny gap between the beds, climbing under Sherlock’s and settling awkwardly on his back, facing the ceiling, “This alright?”

“Yes.”

A fine tremor had started up in Sherlock as he lay beside John, curled facing him, and John wondered, not for the first time, just how much experience Sherlock had with another man, or anyone at all, really. He’d made his feelings on _sentiment_ quite clear.

“This doesn’t have to mean anything, you know,” John turned his head to look at the man beside him, “It doesn’t have to change a thing. Think of it as me, your Doctor, treating you again.”

By inches, Sherlock’s hand edged across the bed between them, coming to rest on John’s hip, just above his cotton boxers and John wondered if Sherlock could feel the way the fabric, even at that distance was tented away from his groin.

“Close your eyes,” Sherlock’s baritone was rougher than it had been throughout the night and John hurried to comply, hiding what little view he’d had of Sherlock in the dimness.

“OK,” John murmured and then hissed as Sherlock’s long fingers moved to brush the fabric over his cock.

“Is this, alright?” Sherlock asked.

John nodded and then realised Sherlock may not be able to see the movement in the scant light, “Mmmhmm.”

Sherlock leaned close and John could feel the warmth of his breath near his ear, “Thank you for this, John. I thought I’d go mad if I didn’t give in again, but… the pain.”

John moved a hand down to cover Sherlock’s where it rested over his groin, already twitching with the need to stroke, “It’s alright, Sherlock. I’m really OK with this, promise. I want to be here.”

“But… you’re not gay,” Sherlock murmured halting and unsure.

“And you’re a sociopath. Except we both know you’re not, and we both know I’m not straight either.” John couldn’t resist any longer and he arched his hips against Sherlock’s hand, hoping he’d take the hint.

At the movement, Sherlock groaned and his fingers tightened around John’s shaft wringing an answering sound from John. John moved his hand from Sherlock’s to encircle his wrist, tugging it to the waistband of his boxers and pressing until it slipped underneath and over his erection.

At the feel of Sherlock’s skin on his own, John moaned again, Sherlock’s name contained somewhere in the sound as Sherlock’s hand began to move.

A huff of relief ruffled the hair around John’s ear as Sherlock murmured, “It’s like scratching an itch you can’t quite reach,” He pulled gently at John, testing out his reactions, “or the first cup of tea after a case has been solved.”

“Christ, Sherlock, more of that, do… more of that,”

Sherlock obliged, rubbing a thumb over the slit again, gathering the wetness there and spreading it, “I’m sorry I used all the lube.”

“S’fine… s’perfectlyfine,” John clutched at the sheet on either side of him, unsure whether touching Sherlock in response would be welcome.

“I could…” the hand that was doing such delightful things disappeared momentarily and John whined at the loss until he heard Sherlock spit wetly and the hand returned, slicker and resumed stroking.

“Fuck, Sherlock, fuck.”

“Not good?” Sherlock’s movements slowed.

“Oh God, good. Very fucking good. If you stop now, so help me, I will kill you.”

A dark, velvet chuckle echoed at John’s side and something blossomed in John’s chest that he seemed, happier, more settled.

“Is this helping, Sherlock,“ he managed to mutter, teeth gritted as the pleasure rose, “is touching me working?”

“Yes, although…”

“What? Although what? Christ, do that again,” John mumbled.

“I had not anticipated my reaction to doing this with you.”

Well, thought John, that was as close as he was going to get to a request to reciprocate and he lifted his hand that lay between them, groping in the dark at Sherlock’s hip until it was clasped firmly in Sherlock’s free hand.

For a sickening moment, John thought he’d overstepped the mark and offended Sherlock until the voice in his ear whispered, “As much as this pains me to say this, John, No.” Sherlock held his fingers gently, “Sore, John, remember? Try up here instead.”

Sherlock tugged John’s hand up, above the edge of the covers and guided his fingers to wind amongst his curls.

“You sure?”

In response to a gentle tug by John, there was a breathy moan that John took to be affirmative before he surrendered what remained of his rational thoughts as Sherlock picked up the pace and did something altogether new with his fist and John felt his balls tighten.

“Gonna come, Sherlock. Oh God, you’re gonna make me come,” he managed, as his hips finally gave up resisting the urge to lift from the bed, pushing himself through the ring of Sherlock’s fingers.

“Do it. Do it, John,” Sherlock’s voice was rough and John could feel the bed moving with little dipping movements as Sherlock’s hips shifted in sympathetic thrusts in empty air, too tender to stand any friction at all.

“Oh God, oh yes, yes,” John’s rhythm had gone to hell as he chased his orgasm, but Sherlock’s hand remained sure and strong, pushing him up to the brink and over it. With one last stuttering thrust, John cried out and his muscles spasmed, clutching the handful of curls in his hand as he cried out and Sherlock moaned in his ear. He felt the wetness hit his abdomen and on Sherlock’s fingers as he stroked him through it, extending the pleasure as burst after burst coated the space between them.

At the first shudder of oversensitivity, Sherlock unfurled his hand and John released his rictus grip on Sherlock’s hair, moving his hand to cup Sherlock’s face as he opened his eyes to see Sherlock gazing at him from the pillow next to him, lids heavy and sated.

“Did you —?”

“No,” Sherlock replied, voice husky, “But to be fair, I think I’m beyond empty.”

John chuckled, “So am I, now. Thanks for that.”

“Anytime,” Sherlock replied automatically and then stopped and dropped his eyes.

“Hey,” John tapped his cheek, “Hey, look at me. We’re OK, yeah. This doesn’t ever have to happen again. Not if you don’t want it to. I know you don’t do… this”

“But I could,” There was a fragile hesitancy in Sherlock’s words.

“Could what, Sherlock? What are you saying?”

“I could do this, with you. If you wanted to, If you didn’t mind, that is.”

John stroked a thumb over Sherlock’s cheekbone, wanting nothing more than to keep this soft, sleepy look of satisfaction on Sherlock’s face forever, “I don’t mind. If it helps, I’ve wanted to do this for months.”

Sherlock chose that moment of revelation to yawn and John smiled at the unguarded expression on his face before his eyes opened again and his eyebrows creased thoughtfully, “Oh, interesting.”

“Interesting?”

“The urge has gone. It appears to have a limited lifespan,” he pulled his hand out from under the covers, grimacing a little at the mess still clinging to his fingers and waggled it experimentally, “some residual stiffness, but it appears to have left no ill effects.”

John’s stomach dropped. With a sick feeling he realised that Sherlock had probably been suggesting a repeat performance as a method to control what now turned out to be a temporary ailment. He silently cursed himself for exposing his long-held desire for his flatmate.

Sherlock meanwhile was easing himself from the bed, poking distastefully at the mess on his abdomen and chest, “I’m going to have a shower, I appear to be coated rather thoroughly in your ejaculate.”

John winced and tried to pitch his voice somewhere in the flippant range, “Yeah, sorry. You just… I’ll get a rag, or something.”

Sherlock paused and turned back toward him, brows crowded together again in confusion, “What are you talking about? Why aren’t you coming too?”

“I didn’t think —”

“Didn’t think I’d want to repeat what we just did?” Sherlock shook his head, “I plan to do rather more with you now that I’m not obsessed with getting my hand around you.” And with that, Sherlock turned back to switch on the bathroom light, “Come on, John. Keep up.”

And as was alway the case, John found himself running after Sherlock Holmes, and trying to wipe the grin from his face while doing it.


End file.
